Time, Ladies and Gentlemen.
Time shows up, starts getting over-familiar. It's six in the morning; I've been awake since four, but I don't know why. I was dreaming a Japanese horror film about a girl who is haunted by the ghost of her bike, and I woke up smiling incongruously in the face of a ghostly feeling that there was something under the bed, although I've slept on a loft bunk since I was six years old. There were a few dark years back there in which it was all dirty mattresses and pallets, and I'd wake up in the cold hours of the night all frozen up with terror. Maybe it was because I was sleeping on a dead bed, and maybe because of all the weed and speed and whiskey, but probably it was because of the monsters hiding in the cracks. At least you can see 'em from a loft bed, and that's all a person can hope for, really, with monsters.
Time has started coming round more often and taking liberties, putting his hand above my knee. Listen, I say. Could you not do that, please.
Hey, girl, he goes, like it's his God-given right: we're just getting to know each other a little better. Don't fight it.
Do I know you? I said, at first. But then I remembered where I knew him from, like one of those lost acquaintances whose faces swim out of the murk of forgotten parties when you see them again in their civvies, months later, for a civil hello and goodbye. And anyway, he seems to know me, and we all know how you always have to say hello to people who think they know you. And then of course he starts coming over to my house and hanging out for hours at a time. He's there, sometimes, when I'm cooking, and you know how I sometimes get that mood and hate it when people stand around wittering on and sticking spoons in unseasoned soup and chomping on carrot sticks while I'm working. Sometimes it's fine, see, and then everybody's welcome to come and grind my pepper and beat my eggs and shove my polenta in and out of the oven. But like I say, Time takes liberties that others don't, or can't. And secretly, you know, I do like a liberty when it's taken stealthily with a bit of finesse, or even roughly from behind, on occasion. So I let it pass; and that's how it works, with Time. I let him pass. Not without a bit of struggle or petulance; after all, a girl can't be seen to just give it up like that.
Everyone's telling me I'm not as young as I used to be, and while that's undoubtedly, objectively, inarguably true, I suppose I never really thought about what it means. Until now. Time is trying to get into my underwear, you know, and I suppose he'll take it from there and continue until he's in my face, my eyes, my ankles and wrists, the corners of my mouth and the curve of my waist. And it's not even personal; he does this with all the girls, and the boys, too, although they pretend not to notice, as with hard-ons in the showers.
And now he's back again, probably sitting under my bed and filing his nails and yawning and refusing to make me coffee. Sometimes I wonder how long he's been here.
If the monster under my bed was just Time all along, doing his thing and fuckin' around and sniffing me out in his mild lecherous way, I think I can live with it after all. True, he terrified me as a kid, and even more so when I was in between being a kid and a grown-up and a monster under somebody else's bed, but now it's all good: I can see him at least, or feel him, anyway. We're just getting to know each other. Guess this kind of thing takes a while; why rush into it? He's got all the time in the world, and I don't even seem to have a choice. S'all good, like I say.
And if nobody else will love me when I'm old and ugly - and who knows, it could be sooner than I think - at least my monster buddy Time will stick around. He's not much for monogamy but I reckon he's a keeper. I might even learn to love him back; but like I say, why rush?
Goodnight, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
Time has started coming round more often and taking liberties, putting his hand above my knee. Listen, I say. Could you not do that, please.
Hey, girl, he goes, like it's his God-given right: we're just getting to know each other a little better. Don't fight it.
Do I know you? I said, at first. But then I remembered where I knew him from, like one of those lost acquaintances whose faces swim out of the murk of forgotten parties when you see them again in their civvies, months later, for a civil hello and goodbye. And anyway, he seems to know me, and we all know how you always have to say hello to people who think they know you. And then of course he starts coming over to my house and hanging out for hours at a time. He's there, sometimes, when I'm cooking, and you know how I sometimes get that mood and hate it when people stand around wittering on and sticking spoons in unseasoned soup and chomping on carrot sticks while I'm working. Sometimes it's fine, see, and then everybody's welcome to come and grind my pepper and beat my eggs and shove my polenta in and out of the oven. But like I say, Time takes liberties that others don't, or can't. And secretly, you know, I do like a liberty when it's taken stealthily with a bit of finesse, or even roughly from behind, on occasion. So I let it pass; and that's how it works, with Time. I let him pass. Not without a bit of struggle or petulance; after all, a girl can't be seen to just give it up like that.
Everyone's telling me I'm not as young as I used to be, and while that's undoubtedly, objectively, inarguably true, I suppose I never really thought about what it means. Until now. Time is trying to get into my underwear, you know, and I suppose he'll take it from there and continue until he's in my face, my eyes, my ankles and wrists, the corners of my mouth and the curve of my waist. And it's not even personal; he does this with all the girls, and the boys, too, although they pretend not to notice, as with hard-ons in the showers.
And now he's back again, probably sitting under my bed and filing his nails and yawning and refusing to make me coffee. Sometimes I wonder how long he's been here.
If the monster under my bed was just Time all along, doing his thing and fuckin' around and sniffing me out in his mild lecherous way, I think I can live with it after all. True, he terrified me as a kid, and even more so when I was in between being a kid and a grown-up and a monster under somebody else's bed, but now it's all good: I can see him at least, or feel him, anyway. We're just getting to know each other. Guess this kind of thing takes a while; why rush into it? He's got all the time in the world, and I don't even seem to have a choice. S'all good, like I say.
And if nobody else will love me when I'm old and ugly - and who knows, it could be sooner than I think - at least my monster buddy Time will stick around. He's not much for monogamy but I reckon he's a keeper. I might even learn to love him back; but like I say, why rush?
Goodnight, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.
posted by JD at
06:01
6 Comments:
Reliable, loyal, never late, a healer - I always thought Time was a woman.
But more importantly, you mentioned polenta which reminded me of the day I ate one of the most delicious meals I have ever tasted - creamy polenta with a fucking amazing mushroom sauce. In my excitement I rushed out and bought a bag of the stuff which still sits at the back of the cupboard rejected in favour of other ingredients. I'm too scared to cook it because every recipe I've read says it's really difficult. Got any tips?
I'll love you when you're old treacle never fear ;_)
Thanks for stopping by! You'll be seeing more of me. x
I love you.
You do have exquisite taste in fine art, Darlin': as with Wittenbols' uh powerful work.
"We would like a Wittenbols' "Incoming" print framed, bitte. It will look so nice over the divan."
i do like this one; i like your rambunctiuous style. it almost makes me want to start doing a journal again instead of a clipped, short, linky little blog. maybe i will.
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